IIP -BORED 


J  ULIAN  STREET 


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UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

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SHIP-BORED 


By  The  Same  Author 

THE    NEED     OF     CHANGE. 

Cloth.    50  cents  net 

PARIS     A     LA     CARTE. 

Cloth.    60  cents  net 

MY    ENEMY  — THE     MOTOR. 

Cloth.    50  cents  net 


THE  SPOTTER  IS  "A  PERFECT  DEAR,"  AND  THAT  IS  HOW  YOUR 

WIFE  COMES  TO  LOSE  TWELVE  DRESSES  AND  A 

TWENTY-THOUSAND-DOLLAR     NECKLACE 

AND  HAVE  HYSTERICS  ON  THE  DOCK. 

(Seepage  47) 


SHIP-BORED 

By 

JULIAN  STREET 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  NEED  OF  CHANGE,"  ETC. 

With  Illustrations  by 
MAY  WILSON  PRESTON 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

MCMXII 


Copyright,  1911 
By  The  Ridgway  Company 


Copyright,  1912 
By  John  Lane  Company 


'Loda  il  mare  da  terra. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  spotter  is  "a  perfect  dear,"  and  that 
is  how  your  wife  comes  to  lose  twelve 
dresses  and  a  twenty-thousand-dollar 
necklace  and  have  hysterics  on  the 
dock Frontispiece 

FACING  PA'GB 

Small  wonder  that  you  hand  a  dollar  to 
your  sister  and  kiss  the  porter  .  .14 

I  recognise  the  blonde  divinity.  Her  eyes 
are  closed,  her  hat  on  one  ear,  and  she  is 
wrapped  like  a  mummy  .  .  .18 

How  the  ship  rolls  and  lurches    .         .         .22 

Ah,  confidences  beside  a  life-boat  on  the 
upper  deck!  26 

Quite  the  nicest  place  on  the  whole  ship  is 
the  smoke-room 30 

Your  cap  goes  flying  overboard.  *  *  *  Your 
cigar  is  blown  to  shreds  .  .  .38 

There  is  a  horrible  fascination  about  a  ship's 
concert,  something  hypnotic  that  draws 
you,  very  much  against  your  word  and 
will 44 


Ship-Bored  "  originally  appeared  in 
Everybody's  Magazine. 


PREFACE 

WHATEVER  the  effect  of  "Ship-Bored" 
upon  others,  its  publication  has  exerted  a 
very  definite  effect  upon  me,  or  rather  upon 
the  character  of  my  daily  mail.  Instead  of 
letters  the  postman  now  leaves  little  pack- 
ages containing  pills  which,  according  to  the 
senders,  will  prevent  the  casting  of  bread 
upon  the  waters. 

It  is  astonishing  to  learn  how  many  sea- 
sick remedies  there  are.  Looking  at  the 
bottles  and  the  boxes  piled,  each  morning, 
by  my  breakfast  plate,  I  sometimes  wonder 
if  there  aren't  as  many  remedies  as  sufferers. 

But  suppose  there  are?  Why  do  people 
send  the  medicines  to  me?  Why  do  perfect 
strangers  assume  that,  because  I  have  taken 
up  the  task  of  muck-raking  the  Atlantic 
Ocean,  I  am  in  need  of  antidotes  for  mat  de 
mer?  Even  suppose  that  I  do  suffer  thus  at 
9 


IO  PREFACE 

sea?  Is  it  anybody  else's  business — or 
luncheon? 

All  great  literary  works  are  born  of  suf- 
fering. Stop  the  suffering  and  you  stop  the 
author.  Yet  people  keep  on  sending  pills 
to  me — each  pill  an  added  insult  if  you 
choose  to  take  it  that  way. 

But  I  don't  take  them  that  way.  I  don't 
take  them  at  all.  I  try  them  on  my  friends. 
When  a  friend  of  mine  is  sailing  I  send  him  a 
few  pills  out  of  a  recent  bottle.  If  he  reports 
that  he  was  sea-sick  I  throw  away  the  bal- 
ance of  the  bottle.  The  same  if  he  dies. 
That  shows  that  the  pills  are  too  strong. 

I  do  not  wish  to  take  undue  credit  to 
myself  for  conducting  these  experiments. 
Since  the  pills  are  given  to  me,  my  researches 
cost  me  nothing — excepting  an  occasional 
friend  whom  (as  he  was  sailing  for  Europe 
anyway)  I  should  not  be  able  to  see,  even  if 
he  were  alive.  J.  S. 

NEW  YORK,  January,  1912. 


SHIP-BORED 


SHIP-BORED 

When  the  cabin  port-holes  are  dark  and  green 

Because  of  the  seas  outside; 
When  the  ship  goes  wop  (with  a  wiggle  between) 
And  the  steward  falls  into  the  soup-tureen, 

And  the  trunks  begin  to  slide; 
When  Nursey  lies  on  the  floor  in  a  heap, 
And  Mummy  tells  you  to  let  her  sleep, 
And  you  aren't  waked  or  washed  or  dressed, 
Why,  then  you  will  know  (if  you  haven't  guessed) 
You're  "Fifty  North  and  Forty  West!" 

— Just-So  Stories. 

NOW  run,  dear!  That's  the  gangway ! 
You  take  the  baby,  and  I'll  take  the 
fitted  bag!  Yes,  I  have  the  sea-sick 
tablets;   they're  here  in  my  pocket  with  the 
tickets  and   the  letters  of  credit  and   the 
travellers'  cheques  and  the  baby's  mittens 
and  the  trunk  keys  and  the — Well,  I  don't 
care  who's  here  to  see  us  off!     People  ought 
to  know  better!     Now  hurry  up!     There 
goes  the  whistle!" 

13 


14  SHIP-BORED 

It  is  an  awful  quarter  of  an  hour,  that 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  liner  sails ;  that 
worrying,  waving,  whooping,  whistling  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  through  which  you  stand  on 
deck  like  a  human  centre-piece  loaded  with 
candy,  fruit,  and  flowers,  surrounded  by  a 
phantasmagoria  of  friendly  faces,  talking 
like  a  dancing-man  and  feeling  like  a  dan- 
cing dervish.  Small  wonder  that  the  deaf- 
ening whistle-blast  and  cry  of  "All  ashore!" 
smite  sweetly  on  your  ears.  Small  wonder 
that  you  hand  a  dollar  to  your  sister  and 
kiss  the  porter  who  has  brought  your 
steamer-rugs. 

Ah,  blessed  moment  when  the  dock  begins 
to  move  away  with  all  those  laughing,  cry- 
ing, waving,  shouting  people;  when  snub- 
nosed  tugs  begin  to  warp  the  ship  into  the 
stream;  when  the  final  howlings  of  the 
megaphonomaniacs  sound  dim.  ("  Bon  voy- 
age, Charlie!"  "Take  care  of  yourself,  old 
man!  Think  of  me  in  gay  Par-reel") 


SMALL  WONDER  THAT  YOU   HANI)  A  DOLLAR  TO  YOUR  SISTER 
AND   KISS  THE  PORTER. 


SHIP-BORED  15 

You  lean,  in  a  dazed  way,  upon  the  rail, 
turning  on  maudlin  grins  and  waving  your 
cap  at  no  one  in  particular,  until  the  crowd 
becomes  a  moving  blur  upon  the  dock-end. 
The  liner's  nose  points  down  the  river;  gen- 
tle vibrations  tell  you  she  is  under  way; 
small  craft  dip  flags  and  toot  as  they  go  by; 
the  man-made  mountain  of  Manhattan's 
office  buildings  drops  astern;  the  statue  of 
Liberty,  the  shores  of  Staten  Island,  the 
flat  back  of  Sandy  Hook  run  past  as  though 
wound  on  rollers ;  the  pilot  goes  over  the  side 
with  a  bag  of  farewell  letters;  the  white  yacht 
which  has  followed  down  the  bay  blows  a 
parting  blast,  dips  her  ensign,  and  swings  in 
a  wide  circle  toward  New  York;  the  pursuing 
tug  comes  up  and  puts  a  tardy  passenger 
aboard.  Then,  suddenly,  like  a  sleep-walking 
dragon  that  wakes  up,  the  liner  shakes 
herself;  her  propellers  lash  the  sea  to  suds; 
a  wedge-shaped  wake  spreads  out  behind 
her,  and  the  voyage  is  on  in  earnest. 


10  SHIP-BORED 

Reno,  Roosevelt,  Trusts,  Wall  Street, 
High  Buildings,  High  Tariff,  High  Cost  of 
Living,  Graft,  Yellow  Journals,  Family  Ho- 
tels, the  Six  Best  Sellers,  the  Sixty  Worst 
Writers,  the  Four  Hundred,  the  Hundred 
Million,  all  the  things  which  go  to  make 
home  sweet,  lie  astern,  enveloped  in  the 
haze  at  the  horizon.  You  are  on  the  sea  at 
last! — the  vast  and  tireless  sea  which  has 
been  the  inspiration  of  painter,  poet,  and 
pirate;  the  cradle  of  Columbus,  Nelson, 
Paul  Jones,  Dewey,  Hobson,  and  Annette 
Kellerman ! 

What  is  there  like  the  sea?  What  is  there 
like  the  free  swing  of  a  gallant  ship  breast- 
ing the  Atlantic?  Nothing!  Let's  sit  down. 
No,  I  don't  want  to  go  and  get  my  coat. 
I'm  not  so  terribly  cold  yet,  and  my  state- 
room smells  of  rubber  and  fresh  paint.  I 
like  it  better  up  here  in  the  air,  don't  you? 
I'm  very  fond  of  the  fresh  air.  I  really  adore 
it.  No,  it  doesn't  always  give  me  a  good 


SHIP-BORED  1 7 

colour.  Not  always.  If  I'm  pale  it  is  only 
because  I  sat  up  late  last  night  at  that 
farewell  dinner.  Perhaps  I  ate  too  much. 
Let's  just  stay  here  quietly  in  our.  deck- 
chairs  and  watch  the  people. 

But,  goodness!  How  they've  changed! 
Where  are  all  those  pretty,  fashionable 
women  who  were  on  deck  before  we  sailed? 
Where,  for  instance,  is  the  adorable  blonde 
with  the  seal  coat,  orchids,  low  shoes,  silk 
stockings,  and  cough? 

A  certain  cynical  friend  of  mine  would 
answer  this  inquiry  by  declaring  that  all 
the  attractive  women  go  ashore,  having  only 
come  to  see  their  homely  relatives  and 
friends  depart.  But  I  don't  think  so.  I 
believe  the  pretty  ones  are  here,  though  in 
seclusion  or  disguise. 

Nothing  of  them  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 

at  the  first  touch  of  Neptune's  hand.  Only 
the  professional  mermaid  can  look  well  at 


1 8  SHIP-BORED 

sea.  The  other  women  either  lie  on  deck  in 
pale  green  rows  and  live  throughout  the 
voyage  on  sea  biscuits  and  sherry,  or,  giving 
up  completely,  seek  burrows  in  the  ship  and 
hibernate  like  animals  awaiting  spring.  Yes, 
even  now  I  think  I  recognise  the  blonde 
divinity.  She's  the  third  one  from  the  end 
in  that  row  of  steamer-chairs  in  the  wide 
part  of  the  deck.  Her  orchids  lie  disconso- 
late upon  her  chest,  her  eyes  are  closed,  her 
hair  blows  in  straight,  strawlike  strings 
across  her  colourless  face,  her  hat  is  on  one 
ear,  and  she  is  wrapped  like  a  mummy  in  an 
atrocious  rug  of  pink  and  olive  plaid. 

Of  course  there's  always  the  exception: 
the  rosy-cheeked,  plaid-coated  creature  who 
walks  the  deck  without  a  hat,  and  lets  the 
ringlets  blow  about  her  face.  Her  hair  curls 
with  the  dampness.  Her  colour  heightens 
with  the  seas  and  winds.  You  might  sus- 
pect her  of  a  golden  scaly  tail  and  fins, 
excepting  that  you  see  her  tiny,  well-shod 


I   RECOGNIZE  THE  BLOND  DIVINITY.       HER   EYES  ARE  CLOSED,  HER   HAT 
ON  ONE  EAR,  AND  SHE   IS  WRAPPED  LIKE  A   MUMMY. 


SHIP-BORED  19 

feet  as  they  step  out  firmly  on  the  deck. 
They  never  step  alone.  There  are  lots  of 
other  feet,  and  larger,  that  delight  in  step- 
ping with  them.  The  very  wind  that  loves 
her  wafts  her  friends— wafts  them  with 
tobacco-smoke,  as  like  as  not: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  does  this  smoke 
trouble  you?" 

"Oh,  no!    Not  in  the  least. 
My    brothers    all    smoke.       I    ( Cigar 
adore    the    smell    of    a    good  -j  Pipe 
Keep  right  on,  please.1'  I  Cigarette 

"Thanks  awfully.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to 
walk  around  to  the  other  side  and  see  the 
lightship?" 

"Oh,  thanks!"  She  thanks  him  for  the 
lightship  as  if  it  were  a  bunch  of  roses. 

And  so  they  walk,  and  walk,  and  walk, 
and  walk — she  near  the  rail,  he  careering  on 
beside  her,  hurdling  over  the  foot-rests  of 
the  rows  of  steamer-chairs,  and  tripping 
now  and  then  upon  the  feet  extending  from 


2O  SHIP-BORED 

them.  And  sometimes  she  sits  down  and 
shows  him  magazines  which  he  has  seen  be- 
fore, and  he  leans  over  very  far,  and  points 
to  things,  and  she  points,  too,  and  his  hand 
touches  hers,  and  he  begs  pardon,  and  she 
excuses  him,  of  course,  and  laughs — and  lit- 
tle locks  of  hair  have  touched  his  cheek. 
And  then  they  walk  again,  and  then  she 
feeds  him  chocolates  (sent  by  some  poor 
chap  who  had  to  stay  behind)  with  her  own 
rosy  finger-tips,  and  then  another  light 
looms  up  ahead,  all  golden,  and  then — How 
short  the  voyage  has  seemed! 

Ah,  feet  that  twinkle,  cheeks  that  hold 
your  roses  when  the  world  is  tottering  and 
green!  Ah,  youth!  Ah,  blowing  curls!  Ah, 
Delta  Kappa  Epsilon!  Ah,  Alpha  and 
Omega!  Ah,  snapshots,  shufBeboard,  and 
sea!  Ah,  confidences  beside  a  life-boat  on 
the  upper  deck!  .  .  .  "And  I  was  taken 
with  you  from  the  second  that  I  saw 
you!" 


SHIP-BORED  21 

"And  I  with  you— — /" 

"Were  you — honestly ?" 

"Yes,  dear !" 

"Dearest !" 

Of  course  we  didn't  overhear  them;  it 
was  the  third  life-boat  on  the  port  side  of 
the  ship  that  overheard,  as  it  has  overheard 
so  many  other  times  on  other  voyages. 

As  for  ourselves,  we  were  not  even  up 
there,  but  were  sitting  in  the  lounge,  trying, 
as  I  recollect,  to  match  passengers  with 
names  upon  the  sailing  list,  and  failing  very 
badly.  The  woman  whom  we  picked  for 
Mrs.  H.  Van  Rensselaer  Somebody  (travel- 
ling with  two  maids,  two  valets,  one  Pome- 
ranian, one  husband,  and  no  children)  proves 
to  be  a  Broadway  showgirl;  and  the  one  we 
dubbed  a  duchess,  the  proprietor  of  a  Fifth 
Avenue  frock- foundry.  Showgirls,  milli- 
ners, and  dressmakers  are  very  often  the 
"smart"  people  of  the  ship,  and  it  must  be 
regretfully  admitted  that  duchesses  too 


22  SHIP-BORED 

often  fail  to  mark  themselves  by  that  arro- 
gance and  overdress  which  free-born  Ameri- 
can citizens  have  a  right  to  expect  of  them. 
It  always  seems  to  me  they  ought  to  put 
the  peers  and  persons  of  interest  at  the  head 
of  the  passenger-list;  but  they  do  not.  The 
first  place  on  the  list  of  every  liner  is  re- 
served for  Mr.  Aaron,  precisely  as  the  last 
place  is  invariably  held  for  Mr.  Zwissler. 
But  though  the  alphabetical  roller  irons  out 
our  names  in  rows,  it  does  not  iron  out  our 
tastes  and  personalities.  We  may  still  be 
quite  as  common  or  exclusive  as  we  wish. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  H.  Van  Rensselaer 
Somebodys  (of  New  York,  Newport,  and 
Paris).  Low  down  on  the  list,  they  are, 
nevertheless,  up  high  on  the  ship.  They 
will  remain  throughout  the  voyage  upon  the 
topmost  deck  (cabins  de  luxe  A,  B,  C,  and 
D)  in  a  state  of  exclusive  and  elegant  sea- 
sickness. You  will  not  see  them.  They 
have  "absolutely  nothing  in  common"  with 


o 

HOW  THE  SHIP  ROLLS  AND  LURCHES! 


SHIP-BORED  23 

any  of  the  other  passengers — excepting  mal 
de  mer  and  perchance  a  wife  or  husband 
ex-officio. 

Of  course  we  have  an  opera-singer  on 
board — a  lady  with  a  figure  like  the  profile 
of  a  disc  record.  No  home  on  the  rolling 
deep  can  be  complete  without  one.  You 
feel  as  if  you  really  knew  her  personally, 
having  heard  her  voice  so  often  upon  your 
coffee-mill  at  home.  And  of  course  we  have 
an  actor  or  an  actress  with  us.  A  liner 
might  as  well  attempt  to  go  to  sea  without 
a  rudder  as  without  one. 

Also,  if  we  are  to  have  full  measure,  there 
must  be  on  board  a  playwright  or  a  novelist, 
a  scientific  man,  an  absconder,  a  bishop,  a 
transatlantic  sharper;  a  group  of  nasal 
people  "personally  conducted"  by  a  man 
with  a  sad,  patient  face;  a  lord,  or  at  the 
very  least,  a  baron  and  some  counts.  The 
other  passengers  are,  for  the  most  part, 
colourless  and  quiet  people  like  ourselves. 


24  SHIP-BORED 

The  men  upon  a  liner  are  divided  into 
two  broad  classes:  the  deck  crowd  and  the 
smoke-room  crowd.  I  can  not  tell  you 
much  about  the  former,  as  I  see  them  only 
now  and  then  at  meals ;  but  the  smoke-room 
is  always  full  of  pleasant  chaps.  You  see, 
the  smoke-room  on  an  English  liner  is  made 
(like  English  law)  for  men  only,  and,  being 
made  for  men,  it  is  the  most  comfortable 
place  upon  the  ship.  It  is  my  habit  to  make 
for  the  smoke-room  as  soon  as  I  decently 
can  (or  even  sooner),  there  to  lie  upon  a 
leather  couch,  feet  up,  back  propped  against 
a  cushion,  and  smoke,  or  doze,  or  read,  or 
talk,  or  think  about  the  endlessness  of  trans- 
atlantic trips.  Only  two  things  can  drive 
me  from  the  smoke-room :  one  is  the  smoke- 
room  steward,  who  closes  up  at  night;  the 
other  is  my  own  sense  of  shipboard  duty 
toward  family  or  friends.  Occasionally  one 
has  to  go  and  see  how  they  are  faring. 

How  the  ship  rolls  and  lurches  the  mo- 


SHIP-BORED  25 

ment  that  one  rises  from  the  leather  couch ! 
How  cold  and  damp  and  windy  is  the  deck, 
how  desolate  the  ladies'  cabin  when  one 
conies  from  the  snugness  of  the  smoke-room ! 
Upon  a  narrow  seat  just  inside  the  cabin 
door,  an  indelicate  old  person  lies,  eyes 
closed  and  jaws  agape.  Across  the  room, 
a  book  turned  downward  in  her  lap,  sits 
the  forlorn  object  of  your  fond  solicitude. 
Her  eyes  are  gazing  straight  ahead,  at 
nothing. 

"Ah,  dear,"  you  say,  approaching  with 
the  best  show  of  gaiety  that  you  can  muster, 
"here  you  are,  eh?  I  thought  I'd  come 
and  see  if  you  wanted  me." 

"Oh,  no." 

"  Did  that  canned  pineapple  disagree  with 
you?  I'm  glad  /  didn't  touch  it.  Well, 
then,  I'll  run  in  and  see  them  auction  off  the 
pool.  You  won't  mind?  By-by,  dear." 

You  think  that  you  want  air.  Reeling 
to  the  wind  swept  deck,  you  cling  unsteadily 


26  SHIP-BORED 

to  an  iron  post  at  the  fore  part  of  the  ship. 
Your  cap  goes  flying  overboard,  carried,  like 
an  aeroplane,  upon  the  gale;  your  cigar  is 
blown  to  shreds;  you  feel  the  sting  of  cold 
salt  spray  upon  your  face;  your  eyeballs 
rock  with  the  great  bow  of  the  ship,  which 
rears  itself  in  air,  higher,  higher,  higher, 
then  smashes  down  upon  the  sea,  throwing 
green,  hissing  mountains  off  to  either  side, 
only  to  rear  and  smash  again  a  million  times. 

Yet  some  people  say  this  is  agreeable! 
this  senseless  movement  of  a  ship,  this  utter 
waste  of  time  and  energy!  But  you  know 
better.  You  let  go  of  the  post,  bolt  down 
the  deck,  dive  into  the  smoke-room,  and 
fling  yourself  again  upon  the  leather  couch. 
As  you  touch  it,  a  magic  calm  o'erspreads 
the  sea.  Then  all  is  well  until  your  sense 
of  duty  pricks  again. 

That  the  smoke-room  is  iniquitous,  I  own 
— as  iniquitous  as  a  comfortable  club,  with 
nice  dark  wainscoting,  leather  chairs  and 


AH,  CONFIDENCES  BESIDE  A  I.IKE-BOAT  ON  THE  UPPER  DECK! 


SHIP-BORED  27 

couches,  and  little  bells  to  touch  when  good 
cigars  and  other  things  are  wanted.  It  is, 
therefore,  quite  the  nicest  place  on  the 
whole  ship. 

My  deck-walking  friends  will  not  sub- 
scribe to  this,  of  course.  They  call  my 
smoke-room  views  and  habits  anything  but 
healthy,  and  urge  me  to  come  out  upon  the 
cold  and  slippery  decks,  and  get  the  chilly 
" benefits "  of  being  on  the  sea.  Alas!  there 
is  but  one  benefit  for  me,  and  that  is  Europe. 
I  detest  the  sea.  I  abhor  it  with  an  awful 
loathing.  It  offends  alike  my  physical  sys- 
tem and  my  sense  of  proportion.  It  is  too 
sickeningly  out  of  scale,  too  hideously  large ! 

Do  not  fancy  that  I  object  to  water, 
as  such.  In  glasses,  in  bath-tubs,  under 
bridges,  or  trimmed  with  swans  and  water- 
lilies,  water  is  all  well  enough.  But  to  put 
so  much  of  it  in  one  place  is  a  wasteful, 
vulgar  show ! 

You  see  that  I  am  telling  you  the  truth 


28  SHIP-BORED 

about  the  sea.  I  am  not  one  to  sit  upon  the 
shore  and  write  you  poetry  (of  the  kind  that 
is  described  as  rollicking)  about  it.  What 
occupation  could  be  more  despicable  than 
that  of  making  sea-songs  to  mislead  the 
public? 

The  sea!     The  sea!     The  open  sea! 
The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free! 
I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more. 

Do  you  grasp  the  ambiguity,  the  subtle 
trickery  of  that  last  line?  What  does  it 
really  mean?  It  means  that  Bryan  W.  Proc- 
ter, who  wrote  it,  had  to  be  upon  the  shore 
to  love  the  sea;  that  the  more  he  was  upon 
the  shore  the  more  he  loved  the  sea  and 
that  the  more  he  was  upon  the  sea  the  more 
he  loved  the  shore.  In  other  words,  he 
loathed  the  sea,  as  I  do.  And  I  am  told  he 
hardly  left  his  native  England  for  dread  of 
the  Channel  trip. 

As  for  Coleridge,  Cunningham,  and 
Campbell,  it  is  only  too  evident  that  they 


SHIP-BORED  29 

wrote  sea-songs  in  vain  celebration  of  their 
own  initials.  Byron  and  Wallace  Irwin  were 
probably  bribed  by  the  transatlantic  steam- 
ship companies  and  the  Navy  Department. 
And  not  one  of  them  is  a  realist.  There 
have  been  two  realists  who  have  written 
poetry  of  the  sea.  One  is  Shakespeare,  who 
wrote:  "Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  fur- 
longs of  sea  for  an  acre  of  barren  ground." 
The  other  is  James  Montgomery  Flagg,  who 
in  his  "All  in  the  Same  Boat"  exposes  the 
sea  down  to  its  very  depths.  The  sea 
treated  him  abominably.  He  retaliated  by 
throwing  a  book.  If  the  sea  had  any  sense 
of  shame  it  would  dry  up,  and  so  would  cer- 
tain of  the  passengers  upon  it.  The  Cheer- 
ful One,  for  instance: 

41  He  sees  you  are  dozing,  he  knows  you  are  ill ; 

But  he  will  sidle  up,  just  to  say, 
As  he  crowds  his  gay  person  on  half  of  your  chair, 

'  Well,  how's  the  boy  feeling  to-day?  ' " 

Don't  ever  fancy  that  the  Cheerful  One 
among  the  passengers  inquires  thus  because 


3O  SHIP-BORED 

he  cares  a  whit.  He  only  wishes  to  empha- 
sise his  own  immunity  from  mat  de  mer,  and 
blow  the  smoke  of  his  disgusting  pipe  into 
your  face.  Neither  his  stomach  nor  his 
intellect  is  sensitive.  He  has  a  monologue 
on  sea-sickness:  it  is  all  nonsense,  imagina- 
tion. It  denotes  weakness,  not  so  much  of 
the  stomach  as  of  the  mentality,  the  will, 
the  character.  And  besides,  you  don't  call 
this  rough,  do  you?  You  ought  to  have 
crossed  with  him  in  the  old  Nausia  in 
'eighty-nine.  Fourteen  days  and  the  racks 
never  off  the  table!  Only  two  other  pas- 
sengers at  meals,  and — don't  you  feel  it 
coming? — the  captain  said  it  was  the — but 
you  fill  in  the  rest.  Ah,  if  the  Nausia  had 
only  sunk  with  all  on  board ! 

When  the  voyage  is  smooth  and  the 
Cheerful  One  is  denied  the  joy  of  making 
sea-sick  folk  feel  sicker,  he  is  disappointed 
but  not  idle,  for  he  may  still  extort  confes- 
sions from  untravelled  persons.  You  know 


QUITE  THE  NICEST  Pl.ACF.  ON  THE  WHOLE  SHIP 
IS  THE  SMOKE-ROOM. 


SHIP-BORED  31 

him:  the  solid,  red-faced  man  who  dresses 
for  dinner  and  sits  at  the  head  of  the  table 
eating  fried  things  loud  and  long  when  it  is 
rough.  He  wears  travel  as  though  it  were 
the  Order  of  the  Garter,  and  tells  you,  be- 
tween mouthfuls,  about  all  the  ships  that 
sail  the  seas.  "No,  sir!  Pardon  me!  The 
table  on  this  ship  cannot  compare  with  that 
of  the  old  Gorgic.  The  Potterdam's  the  only 
ship  for  table  outside  the  Ritz-Carlton 
boats,  though  Captain  Van  der  Plank's  a 
personal  friend  of  mine.  He  knows  what 
eating  is,  sir!  Still,  I  like  the  small  boats — 
no  elevators,  gymnasiums,  and  swimming- 
pools  for  me.  I  like  to  know  I'm  at  sea, 
sir."  And  all  the  time  he's  casting  round  for 
a  victim  who  has  never  been  across  before. 
You  see,  there  is  something  very  igno- 
minious in  making  a  first  transatlantic  trip. 
No  one  should  ever  do  it.  Everybody 
should  begin  with  the  second  or  third  trip. 
Yet  I  remember  a  little  Kansas  City  lawyer 


32  SHIP-BORED 

I  met  on  the  New  Amsterdam,  who  didn't 
seem  to  be  ashamed  of  owning  up.  He 
was  bald-headed  and,  despite  the  twinkling 
eyes  behind  his  spectacles,  solemn-looking. 
His  bald  head  felt  a  draught  from  an  open 
port-hole  during  dinner  on  the  first  night 
out,  and  it  was  when  he  asked  the  "waiter" 
to  "close  the  window"  that  the  "seasoned 
traveller"  (as  they  love  to  call  themselves) 
snapped  up  his  cue.  Turning  in  his  seat 
and  bringing  his  wide  white  shirt-front  to 
bear  full  upon  his  victim,  he  raised  a  fog- 
horn voice  and  asked  the  dreaded  question: 

"Ever  been  abroad  before? " 

We  all  squirmed  with  sympathy  for  the 
little  man. 

"No,"  he  replied,  looking  up  with  a  mild, 
innocent  expression. 

The  shirt-front  bulged;  the  watery  blue 
eyes  looked  up  and  down  the  table  for  atten- 
tion, then: 

"That   so?"   with   a   patronising   air  of 


SHIP-BORED  33 

feigned  surprise.  "  I've  been  over  thirty- 
four  times!" 

"Ever  been  in  Omaha?"  returned  the 
lawyer  blandly. 

"Why— no." 

"That  so?"  replied  the  lawyer,  with  fine 
mimetic  quality.  "  /  go  there  every  week ! ' ' 

Oh,  Innocents,  as  you  set  out  on  your  first 
trip  abroad,  don't  let  yourself  be  bullied  by 
the  boastful !  Call  the  steward  a  waiter,  call 
the  port-hole  a  window,  call  the  promenade 
deck  the  front  porch,  but  call  oh,  call  the 
transatlantic  bully  down!  Be  ready  for 
him  the  instant  he  bawls  that  he's  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Travellers'  Club.  For  the  rest, 
be  the  ingenuous  traveller,  if  you  like.  Be 
the  man  who  has  a  mania  for  sitting  at  the 
captain's  table,  the  man  who  goes  abroad 
to  get  a  lot  of  labels  on  his  suit-case,  the 
man  who  buys  a  set  on  Broadway  (for  two 

dollars)  and  sticks  them  on  at  home,  the 
3 


34  SHIP-BORED 

man  who  howls  when  bands  play  "Dixie," 
the  man  who  wears  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
upon  his  hat,  the  man  who  gambles  with  the 
racy-looking  stranger  underneath  the  warn- 
ing smoke-room  sign  (and  stops  payment 
on  the  cheque  by  cable),  be  personally  con- 
ducted, be  anything  you  like;  but  if  you 
ever  get  to  patronising  people  who  are  sea- 
sick, if  you  ever  get  to  being  proud  of  hav- 
ing crossed  the  ocean  oftener  than  little 
Kansas  City  lawyers,  do  this: 

Wait  until  the  ship  is  settled  for  the  night, 
go  out  on  the  dark  deck,  step  over  to  the 
rail,  and  place  the  left  hand  lightly  but 
firmly  upon  it.  Then  give  an  upward  and 
outward  jump,  raising  the  feet  and  legs  to 
the  right,  in  such  manner  as  to  permit  them  to 
pass  freely  over  the  obstruction.  When  they 
are  well  over,  remove  the  left  hand  from  the 
rail.  This  is  called  vaulting.  The  water  may 
be  cold,  but  you  won't  mind  it  very  long. 
And  one  word  more:  Don't  gurgle;  somebody 


SHIP-BORED  35 

might  hear  you  and  stupidly  spoil  all   by 
crying  out,  "Man  overboard!" 

If  you  decide  to  "end  it  all" — which,  I 
believe,  is  the  expression  adopted  by  the 
best  authorities — there  is  one  humane  sug- 
gestion I  would  make.  End  it  before  the 
ship's  concert.  There's  absolutely  no  use 
in  just  living  on  and  saying  you  won't  go  to 
the  concert,  for  that  is  just  what  everybody 
else  says,  yet  everybody  always  goes.  There 
is  a  horrible  fascination  about  a  ship's  con- 
cert, something  hypnotic  that  draws  you, 
very  much  against  your  word  and  will.  I 
always  think  of  it  as  a  sort  of  awful  anti- 
dote that  is  given  to  the  passengers  to  coun- 
teract the  poison  of  the  steady  boredom  of 
the  ship.  It  is  an  event  in  the  voyage,  just 
as  the  appendicitis  operation  is  an  event  in 
life.  And  as  the  only  people  who  enjoy  the 
appendicitis  operation  are  the  doctors,  the 
only  people  who  go  gaily  to  the  concert  are 
those  who  go  there  to  perform. 


3D  SHIP-BORED 

The  chairman,  for  instance,  enjoys  it  very 
much.  He  is  a  peer,  a  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, or  the  United  States  consul  at  Shep- 
herd's Bush,  and  he  begins  his  speech  by 
stating  that  the  proceeds  of  the  entertain- 
ment will  be  equally  divided  between  the 
Seamen's  Funds  of  New  York  and  Liver- 
pool, or  somewhere  else.  It  is  then  neces- 
sary to  explain  what  seamen  are.  They  are 
"these  brave,  watchful  fellows  who  have  our 
lives  in  their  hands."  At  this,  the  chairman 
looks  at  the  table  stewards,  who  stand  about 
the  walls  with  their  napkins  and  their  mid- 
dle-class grins;  brave,  watchful  fellows  try- 
ing to  look  as  if  they  really  held  our  lives 
and  not  our  dinners  in  their  hands. 

His  duty  to  the  Seamen's  Funds  accom- 
plished, the  chairman  passes  on  to  other 
things.  Just  what  they  are  depends  upon 
his  nationality.  If  he  be  a  British  chair- 
man, his  speech  will  be  composed  of  throaty 
sounds,  coughs,  clearings  of  the  throat,  and 


SHIP-BORED  37 

mumblings,  through  which  the  quick  ear  of 
the  auditor  may  catch  the  following  remarks: 

"As  a  matter  of  fact— 

"Don't  you  know " 

"I  mean  to  say 

Now  and  then  there  comes  a  British  chair- 
man with  a  wide  oratorical  scope.  In  his 
case  these  additional  expressions  will  occur: 

"After  all,  now " 

"You  Americans " 

"Eh,  what?" 

With  the  American  chairman  it  is  differ- 
ent. You  understand  his  speech  and  only 
wish  you  didn't.  After  telling  you  that  "it 
is  a  great  pleasure,"  he  continues  through 
allusions  to: 

"This  international  occasion " 

"Our  English  cousins — 


Hands  across  the  sea — 
Blood  is  thicker  than  water- 


Then  comes  a  humourous  story  about  an 
Englishman,  an  American,  and  an  Irishman, 


38  SHIP-BORED 

at  which  the  English  passengers  laugh,  hav- 
ing a  tradition  that  "you  Yankees  are  such 
droll  chaps!"  The  chairman  now  switches 
quickly  from  the  quasi-ridiculous  to  the 
pseudo-sublime,  and  works  up  to  his  big 
moment,  which  has  for  its  climax  the  table- 
pounding  statement  that  "the  Anglo-Saxon 
race  must  and  shall  predominate!" 

This  is  violently  applauded  by  everybody 
but  a  Frenchman,  who  writhes  horribly  and 
Fletcherises  his  handkerchief. 

When  the  applause  is  over,  the  entertain- 
ment begins  with  the  announcement  that 
the  Opera-Singer  and  the  Polish  Pianist  are 
unable  to  appear,  owing  to  indisposition— 
which  really  means  an  ingrowing  disposition 
not  to  do  so.  They  have,  however,  sent 
"liberal  donations"  to  the  Fund.  We  then 
find  that  "we  are  nevertheless  so  fortunate 
as  to  have  with  us  to-night"  a  young  actor. 
The  Actor  gives  a  serio-comic  recitation. 
But  his  encore  is  his  piece  de  resistance.  It 


YOUR  CAP  GOES  Ki.vim;  OVERBOARD;  YOUR  CIGAR 

IS  BLOWN  TO  SHKKDS 


SHIP-BORED  39 

proves  to  be  a  vivid  verse  about  marine  dis- 
aster, a  form  of  selection  obviously  suited 
to  the  occasion.  Where,  except  at  a  ship's 
concert,  can  one  get  the  full  value  of  such 
lines  as 

"We  are  lost!"  the  captain  shouted, 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stair — 

By  turning  one's  head  only  slightly,  one 
can  actually  see  the  stair,  all  ready  for  the 
captain.  Suppose  we  hit  a  derelict  at  this 
very  moment!  We  might  see  the  whole 
thing  acted  out ! 

After  this  recitation  some  one  tries  to  play 
on  the  piano.  In  the  middle  of  the  piece  the 
ship  gives  an  obliging  lurch,  but  to  no  pur- 
pose ;  for,  though  the  performer  slips  off  the 
stool,  striking  with  his  hands  something  that 
sounds  like  the  lost  chord,  and  with  his  body 
two  ladies  who  are  waiting  for  their  turn,  he 
is  picked  up  and  put  back  on  the  stool  to 
finish. 

When  he  has  done  so,  his  rescuers  spring 


4O  SHIP-BORED 

blithely  forward,  one  playing  the  accompani- 
ment very  badly  while  the  other  renders 
"Araby."  "Araby"  is  always  sung  at  a 
ship's  concert.  Likewise  a  young  Englishman 
invariably  sings  "The  Powder  Monkey." 

The  English  have  peculiar  views  on  sing- 
ing. Mere  matters  of  voice  and  ear  make 
not  the  slightest  difference  to  them.  It  is 
like  going  to  war,  or  playing  on  the  flute: 
one  can't  refuse,  I  mean  to  say,  if  one  is 
asked.  Eh,  what?  The  only  man  in  Eng- 
land who  has  a  right  to  say  he  cannot  sing 
is  one  who  is  literally  dumb,  and  as  he  can- 
not say  it,  it  is  never  said.  And  so,  you  see, 
Britannia  Rules  the  Wave,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing. 

At  the  end  of  the  concert,  "God  Save  the 
King"  strikes  up,  and  everybody  rises  and 
lifts  such  voice  as  he  has  in  song,  the  Amer- 
ican passengers  labouring  under  a  conviction 
that  the  words  begin  "My  country,  'tis  of 
thee,"  until  the  Britons  drown  them  out. 


SHIP-BORED  41 

But  we  have  our  turn,  for  "The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner"  is  played  immediately 
after.  The  words  of  this  excellent  song 
(as  Mr.  Rupert  Hughes  has  pointed  out) 
begin  with  something  of  this  sort: 

Oh    say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light 
How  the  la  ta-ta  ta,  and  the  ta-ta  ta  turn-turn. 

So  we  proceed  until  we  reach  the  spirited 
"ba-a-an-ner  ye-et  wa-ave,"  and  the  shriek- 
ing climax  of  "the  la-and — of — the — free- 
e-e-e!"  The  object  of  the  game  is  not  to 
let  the  British  find  out  that  we  don't  know 
the  words. 

On  German  ships,  particularly  those  in 
the  Mediterranean  service,  the  gay  occasion 
of  the  voyage  will  be  the  Captain's  Dirlner, 
a  function  which  doubtless  draws  its  name 
from  the  fact  that  the  captain  is  invariably 
absent  from  the  table.  But  if  the  captain 
doesn't  come,  everybody  else  does,  and  there 


42  SHIP-BORED 

is  more  dress  than  usual,  and  there  are  lights 
inside  the  ices.  After  dinner,  the  deck  is 
illuminated  with  coloured  electric  bulbs,  the 
band  plays,  and  the  people  "trip  the  light 
fantastic  toe,"  as  country  papers  put  it. 
On  German  liners  it's  not  always  light,  but 
it  is  frequently  fantastic. 

There  are  two  great  events  that  occur  on 
this  occasion.  Some  young  men  from  the 
section  which  is  the  backbone  of  our  coun- 
try— if  not  it's  fashion  centre — appear  on 
deck  in  dinner-coats  and  derby  hats.  They 
have  read  somewhere  a  fashion  note  stating 
that  "the  derby  or  bowler  hat  is  the  one 
headpiece  de  rigueur  with  the  Tuxedo  or  din- 
ner suit,"  and  they  mean  to  be  comme  ilfaut 
upon  their  trip  abroad,  or  "bust."  The 
other  great  event  is  the  ship's  belle  in  her 
pink  chiffon.  It  makes  you  almost  wish  you 
were  a  dancing-man,  to  see  her.  But  there 
are  dancing-men  enough — among  them  the 
ship's  doctor.  He  leads  her  in  the  mazes  of 


SHIP-BORED  43 

the  waltz  and,  while  dancing,  is  given  an 
anaesthetic,  in  shape  of  a  languishing  glance 
or  two.  Before  he  comes  to,  his  partner  has 
performed  a  minor  operation  on  him — the 
amputation  of  a  button. 

You  overhear  her  on  the  tender,  as  you 
leave  the  ship  next  day:  "Oh,  yes,  I  love 
the  sea.  You  can  let  yourself  go  and  be 
sure  of  getting  out  of  everything  in  a  week! " 
Perhaps  you  see  her  in  Paris,  with  new 
escorts.  Perhaps  she  is  on  the  same  boat 
when  you  go  home  again.  And  if  she's  not, 
there's  some  one  else  just  like  her.  And  also 
there  is  some  one  just  like  each  of  the  other 
passengers  with  whom  you  left  New  York. 

But  for  all  that,  there  are  differences 
between  the  voyage  east  and  the  voyage 
west.  Letters  of  credit  have  shrunk,  ward- 
robes have  increased,  and  the  handiwork  of 
the  European  bill-poster  may  be  seen  on 
trunks  and  bags  as  that  of  his  American 
confrere  is  seen  at  home  on  ash-barrels  and 


44  SHIP-BORED 

fences.  And  there's  more  to  talk  about 
when  you  are  going  west :  Paris  dressmakers, 
European  hotels,  and  the  American  cus- 
tom-house. If  you  talk  with  Europeans,  it 
is  always  nice  to  give  them  fresh  impres- 
sions as  to  what's  the  matter  with  their 
country  and  with  them. 

So  the  gray,  dismal  voyage  passes.  At 
last  there  comes  the  morning  when  you 
wake  to  see  the  sunshine  streaming  through 
your  port-hole;  when,  though  your  clothing 
and  the  flowered  cretonne  curtains  of  your 
berth  are  swinging  freely  back  and  forth  in 
time  with  creaking  sounds  which  chase  each 
other  through  the  bounding  ship,  you  do  not 
care,  because  your  heart  is  glowing  with  an 
unaccustomed  happiness. 

"Fane  brate  day,  sir,"  says  the  steward, 
in  a  cheery  voice,  as  he  brings  in  your  hot- 
water  can. 

"A  little  rougher,  isn't  it?"  you  return,  as 
if  you  hoped  it  was. 


SHIP-BORED  45 

"A  bit  fresher,  perhaps,  sir,"  he  corrects. 
"She  did  put  'er  foot  in  a  few  'oles  lahst 
night.  See  the  land,  sir?" 

Ah,  that's  why  you're  so  gay! 

"Land!     Where?" 

You  leap  from  your  berth  to  the  port-hole 
in  one  bound. 

A  schooner  and  a  coastwise  steamer  are  in 
sight,  gulls  are  swinging  in  long  circles  with 
the  ship,  and  far  away  on  the  horizon  lies  a 
haze  which  is  America. 

You  dress  with  care  and  hurry  to  the 
deck.  You  bow  and  give  a  gay  "good 
morning!"  to  some  people  you've  not  spo- 
ken to  before.  You  even  have  a  word  for 
the  man  who  always  walks  with  a  pedo- 
meter, and  the  one  who  is  coming  back  from 
Germany  after  having  put  a  noiseless  soup- 
spoon on  the  market.  The  deck  is  all 
abloom  with  pretty  girls  in  pretty  hats  and 
pretty  suits. 

Even  the  ship  is  making  ready  for  the 


46  SHIP-BORED 

shore.  Hatches  are  off,  busy  donkey-en- 
gines are  hustling  mail-bags  up  from  dark 
recesses  within,  stewards  are  smiling  as  they 
rush  about  with  trunks  and  rolls  of  rugs. 

"I'm  Boots,  sir.     Don't  forget  Boots,  sir." 

Ah,  no,  good  Boots!  Thrice  welcome, 
Boots!  And  here's  thy  toll,  already  set 
aside,  like  all  the  other  tips,  in  envelopes. 

Land  ho! 

The  world  is  blithe  and  gay — except  for 
one  depressing  thought.  The  nearer  you 
get  to  the  New  York  custom-house,  the 
heavier  becomes  the  load  of  luggage  on  your 
mind.  Dresses,  hats,  wraps,  lingerie,  so 
gaily  bought  in  Paris,  lie  withering  like 
Dead  Sea  fruit  in  the  forlorn  cold  storage  of 
furiously  labelled  wardrobe  trunks. 

"Must  I  declare  that  Paris  motor-coat? 
It  never  fitted,  and  it's  fairly  worn  to 
shreds!" 

"Yes,  dear,  everything.  And  sh-h! 
There  are  spotters  on  the  ships,  you  know." 


SHIP-BORED  47 

The  United  States  custom-house  spotter 
ought  to  look  like  a  detective,  but  he  doesn't. 
Instead  of  playing  Foxy  Quiller,  he  plays 
bridge,  and  probably  with  you.  He  adores 
the  ladies — the  dear  ladies,  God  bless  'em! 
For  it  is  the  ladies  whom  the  spotter  mostly 
spots:  the  pretty  ladies  with  big  state-rooms 
and  big  trunks  and  big  hats;  the  pretty 
ladies  with  the  little  maids  and  little  evening 
gowns  and  little  pearls.  The  spotter  has  to 
be  the  sort  of  man  these  ladies  like,  or  else 
the  Government  will  change  his  spots.  In 
short,  he  is  a  perfect  dear!  So  when,  at 
bridge,  he  makes  the  coy  confession  that 
he  is  taking  French  silk  stockings  over  to  his 
sister  and  wonders  if  he'll  "have  trouble  on 
the  pier,"  your  wife  tells  him  just  what  she 
is  doing.  ("One  can't  mistake  a  gentle- 
man!") She  tells  him  that  she's  going  into 
her  state-room  to  sew  some  New  York  labels 
into  Paris  gowns  and  hats — and  that  is 
how  she  comes  to  lose  twelve  dresses  and  a 


48 


SHIP-BORED 


twenty-thousand-dollar  necklace,  and  have 
hysterics  on  the  dock,  and  how  she  never 
sends  that  dinner  invitation  to  him  at  the 
club  in  Forty-fourth  Street. 


BOOKS  BY  JULIAN   STREET 


The  Need  of  Change.  Illustrations  by  Horace 
Taylor.  12mo.  Cloth.  50  cents  net.  Postage 

5  cents. 

"A  sketch  too  good  to  miss.  Delightfully  hu- 
morous."— Baltimore  Sun. 

"  Many  laughs  between  the  covers.  The  story  is 
told  with  spirit  and  a  constant  sense  of  humor.** 

— Nenv  York  Saturday  Re<uie<w  of  Books. 

Paris  a  la  Carte.  Illustrations  by  May  Wilson 
Preston.  12mo.  Cloth.  60  cents  net.  Postage 

6  cents. 

A  charming  account  of  certain  of  the  author's 
"gastronomic  promenades"  of  Paris,  as  he  expresses  it, 
"principally  in  taxis.  "  The  volume  is  not  a  guide  book 
to  the  restaurants  of  Paris,  but  is  made  up  of  entertaining 
and  amusing  sketches  that  will  make  enjoyable  reading 
for  those  who  have  never  been  abroad,  and  helpful  to 
those  who  intend  going. 

Ship  Bored.  Illustrations  by  May  Wilson  Preston. 
12mo.  Cloth.  50  cents  net.  Postage  5  cents. 
This  is  an  original,  most  amusing  and  highly  realistic 
account  of  the  longing  for  firm  earth  experienced  by 
all  those  who  are  ship  bored,  or  seasick.  A  trip  across 
the  ocean,  as  described  in  this  little  book,  will  certainly 
appeal  to  every  one's  sense  of  humor. 

My  Enemy— The  Motor.  Illustrations  by  Horace 
Taylor.  12mo.  Cloth.  50  cents  net.  Postage 
5  cents. 

"Will  supply  all  normal  readers,  motor  enthusiasts 
or  otherwise,  with  cause  for  chuckling  during  a  good 
half  hour. " — Chicago  Record-Herald. 


John   Lane   Co.        New  York 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000695127     1 


